


The One Where Sam is a Little Bitch

by triedunture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Macrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kink_bingo wild card slot. Sam gets shrunk down to teeny tiny, the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Sam is a Little Bitch

_**Supernatural fic: The One Where Sam is a Little Bitch**_  
Title: The One Where Sam is a Little Bitch  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Rating: PG13  
Length: 4300 words  
Pairings: none really, unaware Dean/Sam sexual situations, slight Castiel/Sam friendship  
Warnings: macrophilia  
Summary: For the kink_bingo wild card slot. Sam gets shrunk down to teeny tiny, the end.

<><><><>

  
Witches. Why did it always have to be witches? Or, more correctly in this case, warlocks. Although Sam wasn't too sure about the distinction; it seemed to him if you were going to make a blood pact with the demonic world in exchange for magical powers, you wouldn't be splitting hairs over what hunters should call you. And yet here we are, Sam thought as he stared down the sights of his shotgun at the warlock he and Dean had been tracking for the better part of a month.

"Listen, we've, uh, dealt with plenty of men who called themselves witches. I didn't know the preferred nomenclature had, you know, shifted. Or something." Sam shook his head and hefted his shotgun higher. "Just keep your hands in the air."

"I'm only saying, 'warlock' is the accepted terminology for male practitioners of the dark arts." The man lifted his hands a bit higher, following the lead of Sam's shotgun. "I'm not offended, really, but you'd think you and your brother would get the little things right, what with this being your career and all."

Sam sent a silent wish that Dean would hurry the hell up. The older Winchester had been checking out another part of the abandoned warehouse, looking for the witch (sorry, _warlock_ ) who'd been hexing dozens of townspeople to death. Their crimes had been, in one small way or another, pissing off 32-year-old Lloyd Jameson. Lloyd the witch. Warlock. Whatever. Either way, the guy was creeping Sam out.

Sam shifted his stance, not dropping his shotgun an inch. "What do you know about our careers?" he asked, suspicion coloring his voice.

"Oh," bushy eyebrows rose, "I heard a lot about you Winchester boys through the grapevine. Always sticking your nose in our business. Shooting up covens with your big, bad guns. Must think you're hot shit. You know what I think?" Lloyd gave a maniacal grin, flashing his sharp teeth. "I think you're just a little bitch."

Sam shrugged. "Guess that's your opinion," he said mildly.

"Not opinion, kid. Fact." Lloyd's hand struck out, quick as lightning, and smashed something on the filthy floor. It went up in a puff of blue smoke, and before Sam could even pull the trigger, his lungs seized up with a wracking cough. He brought his shirtsleeve up to cover his nose and mouth, his eyes squeezed shut against the noxious fumes.

The shotgun became too heavy and big in his hand, and Sam felt it fall from his slack fingers. For a moment, his bones ached like someone had put him on the rack. He opened his eyes. And things got a million times worse.

For starters, there was now a gigantic shoe in front of him, very like the scuffed brown leather ones Lloyd had been wearing. Except, you know, really big, like the size of houses. As Sam watched, the monstrous loafer slowly raised itself in the air, the black treads blotting out the light. Sam was surrounded by shadows, and he steeled himself for the inevitable life-flashing-before-his eyes thing that always happened when death was near. A voice like thunder roared with laughter.

Sam clapped his hands over his ears; the noise was worse than a rock concert. But he didn't have time to worry about that; he just dove for cover out of the way of Lloyd's giant foot. It missed him by inches, slamming down on the concrete with hurricane force. Sam scrambled to his feet just as the giant shoe slowly lifted itself again. He tipped his head back until he was looking straight up into the air at Lloyd the Warlock's huge moon of a face. His eyes widened at the sight.

"How did you--?" Sam's first thought was that maybe Lloyd had magicked himself into some sort of giant, but he didn't see any cracked walls or debris from the warehouse roof. In fact, he didn't see anything; the walls that had been so close now seemed far away, and the cold gray floor seemed to stretch for miles in every direction.

"I'll give you a second to wrap your tiny brain around it," Lloyd boomed in a deafening voice. Sam's bones vibrated inside his skin at the sound. He was seriously afraid his eardrums might burst; he clapped his hands over his ears again. "Face it, Winchester," Lloyd continued, "you're in a _little_ bit of trouble." He leaned down, still towering over Sam, and nudged at him with a huge forefinger. It felt like being hit in the chest by a Volkswagen. Sam lost his footing and fell backwards onto the ground once more, his eyes still wild with confusion. Lloyd cackled. "Get it yet? You're all of two inches tall now, kid. And much more manageable this way." His foot lifted again, eclipsing the sight of his face. "Nice knowing you."

Sam had to admit, of all the ways he'd almost (or actually) died, being shrunk down and then crushed to death by a warlock was the weirdest. He looked around for cover, but there was none to be had. The shoe descended, the wind whistling around it, and Sam steeled himself for a squishy death, his arms raised defensively in front of his face.

"Hey cockbag!" Dean's voice was just as loud as Lloyd's, but much more welcome. Sam turned to see his brother standing miles away, taller than a skyscraper, Glock raised and ready. Lloyd didn't have a chance to respond, just looked up wide-eyed as Dean pulled the trigger.

There weren't enough ear plugs in the world to save Sam from the noise of the gunshots. Lloyd the Warlock slowly toppled over onto the ground. All Sam could do was duck, cover, and pray the guy fell THAT way instead of THIS way. Which he did, shaking the floor like an earthquake. Small miracles.

Ugh, Sam was already sick of all the potential puns. And he was sure Dean would have plenty more. Speaking of.

"Dean?" he looked up and found his brother wandering around the perimeter of the room, a perplexed look on his face. "Dean, I'm right here!" Sam waved his arms in the air, shouting with all his might. His ears buzzed with the echoes of the gunshots and the smack of Lloyd's body on the floor, but he could still hear Dean's booming voice call his name.

"Sammy? You in here?"

"Here, Dean! Don't you see me?"

"Sam! Where the hell did he get to?" Dean dropped their big black gear bag on the floor to reach for his cell phone.

He can't hear me, Sam realized. I'm too small for him to hear.

He took off running as fast as he could towards his brother, thinking that if he couldn't get his attention with noise, he'd have to catch his eye. He made it all the way to where the gear bag sat slouched on the ground, but it was still too far for Dean to notice him.

Dean, meanwhile, was dialing Sam's number and cursing all the while. "Stupid fucking moose, I told him to stay in the building. What the hell, man? Cut and run like some asshole." He held his cell up to his ear; Sam could hear the ringing even from his faraway spot on the ground.

"Yes! Our phones, you can hear me through our phones, right?" Sam fumbled in his jean pocket for his Blackberry, holding it in trembling hands and staring at the blank screen. "Come on, come on." A very calm part of his otherwise freaking-out brain informed him that perhaps a cell phone that had shrunk down to the size of a grain of rice wouldn't have the capacity to pick up a signal. The Blackberry didn't emit one single peep.

"Shit," the brothers said in unison as Dean's call went to Sam's voicemail. Sam slumped to the ground with his useless Blackberry in his hand, his back against the huge canvas facade of Dean's gear bag. He listened to Dean leave a message, which, if he didn't figure a way out of this mess, he would never return:

"Sammy, it's me. Where the fuck are you? I'm going to give the place one last sweep. Meet me back at the motel when you get this," Dean said.

Dean's phone clicked closed, and Sam's heart sank. He had to think of something, and fast, before Dean took off in the Impala and left Sam with the decomposing body of Lloyd the Witch/Warlock. Already Dean was striding over to the gear bag, bending to pick it up with a heavy sigh, and he wasn't noticing Sam. Sam did the only thing he could and grabbed hold of a loose thread coming off one of the bag's straps. He was hoisted high in the air as Dean lifted the bag, and his shoulders felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets with each gigantic thump of Dean's footsteps. Luckily, Sam managed to swing himself up into the cradle of the bag's canvas and ride it all the way to the backseat of the car.

As Dean slid into the driver's seat, Sam poked his head out of the bag and surveyed the new freakish landscape of the Impala. He had been hoping he could crawl into the front seat and get Dean's attention by changing the radio dials or something, but the chasm that separated the backseat from the front made that impossible. He'd just have to bide his time and wait for Dean to get back to the hotel; he'd take the gear bag inside with him to clean the guns, and Sam could make his move then.

It wasn't a bad plan, all in all. Sam stretched out in the stiff black folds of the bag and watched the sliver of Dean's three-quarter profile he could see from his perch in the backseat. His brother had Blue Oyster Cult blasting from the speakers, and the grumble of the Impala's engine carried them through the intersections of downtown. Dean tapped his hands against the wheel to the beat for a minute or two before switching off the music with a grunt. He checked his cell phone again, but of course saw no sign of Sam returning his call. Dean took a moment at a stoplight to flick his eyes upwards.

"Jesus, God, whatever," Dean muttered to himself, his voice gone all soft, "please let Sammy be okay."

Sam blinked. He knew his brother cared for him, hell, probably more than anything else in the world ever did, but he only ever saw Dean express it with a hard edge of brotherly annoyance. And he certainly never saw Dean pray.

It would have made him feel very warm and loved, if he had time to dwell on it.

As it was, the car squealed into the motel parking lot a few moments later. Sam tried to stand as tall as possible and wave his arms in the air, but Dean grabbed the gear bag without a glance at it, instead scanning the parking lot for danger as was his habit. Sam tumbled back into the dark folds of the bag, where the smell of gun oil and salt was overpowering. He tried not to breathe as he was jostled along, Dean's footsteps measuring the distance to the motel room.

A rattle of a key, a creak of a door, and the bag was thrown down roughly. Sam tried to brace himself by grabbing handfuls of the soft canvas sides, but he he couldn't stop a clip of bullets the size of a motorcycle from smashing into his left leg. He didn't bother to bite his lip against the scream; he was going to have one hell of a bruise.

Carefully, Sam picked his way out of the pitch dark bag, climbing over guns and ammo and desperately trying not to put too much pressure on his injured leg. He finally crawled through the open zipper, blinking in the harsh motel lights.

The ancient television blared to life, startling the crap out of Sam. He looked up and saw Dean's bare toes wriggling over the edge of the mattress, boots and socks discarded in a pile below on the floor. Dean flipped through the channels at a rapid pace: weather report, sports crowd cheering, corny infomercial voiceover, kiddie cartoon, action movie explosions, weather report again. The never-ending cacophony made Sam's head spin. He had to get Dean's attention, and fast. Before he went crazy.

Sam climbed gingerly out of the gear bag and onto the carpet, where his feet sank into the shag up to his calves. He couldn't believe how huge and treacherous their crappy little motel room now looked to him. The TV stand, which had seemed dinky to him that morning, now soared into the air like the frigging Alps. The flimsy queen beds, to his eyes, were huge twin plateaus. Even moving through the gentle dips and rips in the faded shag carpet was now like hiking through a dangerous swamp.

There was no way Sam was going to be able to shout at Dean and be heard over the noise of the television, so he resolved to climb up onto the bed and maybe stab Dean with the knife Sam kept in his boot. He figured it would feel more like a bug bite than anything to Dean, but at least it would get his attention.

The problem was how to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro without any tools. Sam stood at the base of the bed, his head tilted back, gazing up at the impossible climb he had before him. There was a sort of tattered bed skirt on Dean's bed; Sam planned on using that to clamor up to the mattress. But to reach the bed skirt, he needed to find a way to reach what was, to him, about five stories straight up.

Luckily, Dean had taken off his shoes before laying in bed. For once.

Sam scaled his brother's mud-caked boots, his scraped and bleeding fingers scrabbling for purchase. The minuscule folds in the worn leather served as handholds of a kind, but Sam had never excelled at rock climbing, and he found himself pausing to catch his breath often. Finally, he worked his way up the laces, past the porthole rivets and the rolling pin-sized aglets, to the lip of the boot. Sam stood on his tiptoes and reached as far as he could for the dingy white bed skirt swaying in the air above him.

The television settled on an old rerun of Law & Order for a few minutes before Dean clicked onwards. If only he'd pick something and stick with it, Sam thought maybe the pounding in his head might lessen.

Sam's muscles were sore and aching from the long trek across the carpet and up the shoe, and all he really wanted was a cold glass of ice water and some sleep, but if he didn't want to get stepped on, vacuumed up, swept away, or brushed off, he had to make it to Dean. Sam steeled himself and leapt into the air, grabbing hold of the bed skirt fabric. He swayed there back and forth, trying to get his bearings. His shoulders and arms screamed in pain, and his hurt leg throbbed, but he gritted his teeth and began climbing hand-over-hand. It was sort of like one of those rope exercises in gym class, except harder because the fabric was flat and shifting, not designed to hold his weight at all. His feet dangled uselessly as he dragged himself upwards, upwards, not stopping for fear of his arms cramping and locking up.

Finally, slick with sweat and nearly in tears with pain, Sam made it to the top of the mattress. He almost lost his handhold and would have fallen to his death on the shag pile, but he dug in and with one last grunt of effort, hauled himself up on the edge of the bed.

He lay there for a moment, panting for air and waiting for his pulse to stop pounding in his ears. As the roar in his head died down, Sam became dimly aware of the television again. It seemed Dean had settled on a channel. What was that, weather? No, sports? No. Sam cocked his head and glanced back at the monstrous screen.

It was porn. Fantastic. If the accents were anything to go by, it sounded like Busty Asian Beauties.

Sam surveyed the landscape before him. He had ended up on the lower corner of the mattress. Dean was stretched out on the bed, his bare feet far to the right of Sam, his massive denim-covered legs spanning the length of the bedsheets. Far in the distance, Sam saw his brother gazing dispassionately at the TV screen and thoughtfully fisting his cock. Sam blinked, open-mouthed, for one second, then two. Then:

"Seriously!?" Sam blurted out, wishing he could voice his anger to someone who could fucking hear him. "I'm missing, maybe _dead_ , and you decide _this_ is a good time to jerk it? You massive, massive asshole!" He struck the soft bed sheets with his fist, wishing it was Dean's stupid face.

It wasn't just the cringing awkwardness of seeing his brother masturbating that angered Sam; it was the fact that now it was going to be harder to get Dean's attention. He was watching the Pay-Per-View with a sinlge-minded purpose, and no matter how violently Sam waved his sore arms in the air, Dean didn't notice. Sam was going to have to crawl all the way to his brother's stupid giant foot and get with the stabbing. Preferably with eyes averted the whole way.

Living and traveling together for the better part of their lives, it was inevitable that Sam and Dean would walk in on each other once in awhile, but Sam had never experienced such an embarrassing moment in Attack of the Fifty Foot Dean glory. The squish-slide noises were particularly unwelcome, as was the heavy scent of musk. Sam could still hear (and, ugh, smell) every little detail of Dean's spanking session. Sam, for his part, kept walking with his head down, eyes on the scratchy motel sheets under his feet, and held out hope he would wake up and find out this entire shrinking thing was just a weird nightmare.

Sam glanced up at his target, Dean's pale bare ankle. He was almost there, just a little further. Though, from the sounds Dean was making (grunts and more grunts), it sounded like Dean was close to his goal too.

"Not looking, _not_ looking," Sam muttered resolutely, making a blinder with his hand at the side of his face. Another very long, sustained grunt. "Jesus Christ, Dean, just finish up already."

Sam's prayers were answered, as usual, in a way he had not been anticipating. Dean did finish, shaking the whole bed. His huge feet thrashed on the sheets. Sam suddenly realized he was in danger of getting kicked clear off the bed, and he tried to duck for cover, but he couldn't escape. Dean's toes curled into the bed sheets right over Sam, briefly crushing him into the mattress. Sam's heart seized in his chest; he was convinced this was it, that he was going to be crushed underfoot like an insect. But Dean's toes flexed again in time with his harried grunt, and Sam scrambled out from under his foot and into the open air, gasping for the breath that had been pressed from his lungs.

The joy of being alive didn't last long. A kind of shadow appeared in the corner of Sam's eye, something in the air, and he looked up to see what it might be. And Sam's luck continued in the same vein.

Is there a tactful way to describe a comet of semen hitting you in the face? No, no there isn't.

Sam opened his eyes carefully. He was covered in come from head to toe: it was matted in his hair, dripping down his face, caking his jeans and shirt. His mouth was set in a firm line; the last thing he wanted was to swallow it as well. A come bath was plenty, thank you very much.

But even though he couldn't speak, he _thought_ very hard at his brother, the universe, and everything: **Mother. Fucker.**

No hesitation now about stabbing Dean in the foot with his dinky switchblade. Sam reached into his boot, which was swamped with sticky come, to retrieve the knife, but Dean chose that moment to recover from his self-love session and swing his legs off the bed. The whole mattress quaked, and Sam was tossed in the air as if on a trampoline. Dean must have noticed the awful mess he's made of the bed sheets, because he tossed them carelessly off the foot of the bed.

Which would have been fine, except Sam was wrapped up in them.

Come-contamination issues forgotten, Sam screamed for all he was worth as he fell with the sheets towards the floor. The height was too much at his size; he would break his neck with the impact. Thinking quickly, he grabbed blindly at the fabric surrounding him, twisting in a desperate attempt to break his fall.

He hit the carpet like a ton of bricks, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Through the gauzy white bed sheet covering his head, he watched Dean loping towards the bathroom.

Sam reached a hand out for Dean, his voice as feeble as his bruised body felt. "No, don't go. Dean!"

Dean shut the door behind him.

Sam's arm fell heavily to the rug. He was beat up and filthy and really, really small and right back where he fucking started, no closer to getting his brother to help him. He could have just resigned himself to living among the motel roaches and mice for the rest of his tiny life, and probably wouldn't have had any other options, except Castiel flapped into the room just then.

With one last burst of energy, Sam struggled out of the tumble of sheets, looking up at the towering trench-coated angel, surveying the room with his cool, alien gaze.

"Cas!" Sam shouted. "Cas, can you hear me?"

Blue eyes blinked once, slowly, before Castiel looked down at Sam and frowned. "Hello, Sam. What are you doing down there?" His voice was very soft, quiet enough that Sam's ears didn't ring with it. Sam figured, as an angel, Castiel had more control over his vocal chords than humans.

"I'm shrunk!"

"I see that," Castiel said patiently. "But don't you think it's dangerous for you to be on the floor in your condition?"

"Yes! God yes! I've been trying to get Dean--and then the porn--and the witch wanted to be called a warlock--and, fucking hell, Cas, this is like the worst day of my entire life." Sam sat down heavily, drained of all resolve and just aching with relief that someone had seen him and could hear him. He ran a hand through his hair, which was still dripping with come, and grimaced.

"Here, allow me." Castiel scooped him up gently in his hands, and Sam shut his eyes against the vertigo of being lifted so high. Castiel dabbed at his tiny wet face with the edge of his necktie. "You've become quite messy."

"Dean," Sam muttered darkly. "He was, uh...."

"Achieving orgasm, yes, I understand he does that with some regularity. Do you often place yourself in what I believe is termed the 'splash zone?'" Castiel's face was creased in honest curiosity.

Sam reddened under the film of come on his face. "No! He just didn't see me" He looked down at his tiny body, cradled in Cas's warm palm. "Cas, is there any way you can fix this? Zap me back to my normal size?"

"Are you certain you wouldn't prefer a slight reduction in your usual height? Dean often complains that you are too tall to fit comfortably in the car," Cas said.

"I want to go back to exactly how I was before," Sam gritted out between his teeth.

"All right, no need to get angry." Castiel wiped a dripping strand of come from Sam's cheek with the tip of his pinkie nail. "Close your eyes."

Sam did so, and felt Cas press the pad of his little finger against Sam's forehead. Everything went a little wonky and turbulent for a moment, and Sam opened his eyes to find himself eye-to-eye with Cas, or rather, looking down at Cas like he always had. He flexed his leg and arms; the pain was gone. Even the come had been cleaned away.

"Thanks for the mojo," Sam said. In his relief, he didn't even notice that Cas was still holding him, his hands clasped to his hips. "I thought I was dead for sure."

"It is always my pleasure to help Winchesters, both large and small." Cas quirked one of his almost-smiles up at Sam.

Dean banged out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel slung low on his waist, a foaming toothbrush sticking out of the side of his mouth.

"Sammy!" he cried around the toothbrush, flecking foam on the floor. "You're back! What the hell happened to you?"

"Well." Sam glanced at Cas. The angel held up a single forefinger and pressed it knowingly against his own lips.

"Nothing. Just got a little, uh, lost," he said.

fin

>   
> I wrote this for my BFF pairodocs, who is to blame for aaaaaaaaaall this going on right here. *makes a circle gesture to encompass everything*
> 
> <3 you, m'colleague! You son of a bitch.  
> 


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